


Desideratum

by asweetepilogue, multiplelizards, Naughty_Yorick, wherethewordsare



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst, Emotional Hurt, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-22
Packaged: 2021-03-24 07:55:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30069096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asweetepilogue/pseuds/asweetepilogue, https://archiveofourown.org/users/multiplelizards/pseuds/multiplelizards, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naughty_Yorick/pseuds/Naughty_Yorick, https://archiveofourown.org/users/wherethewordsare/pseuds/wherethewordsare
Summary: Desideratum - to long for.Five times Jaskier needed Geralt, plus one time Geralt needed him.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 54
Kudos: 263





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey y'all, this is another train fic! Keep an eye out for the next part on Wednesday from our next mystery contributor!

"Geralt," Jaskier hissed, "please—"

"No," he said, not so much as twitching, "I'm not getting involved." Jaskier deflated. It was...a little heartbreaking. They had traveled together for years and yet there were still days when he thought Geralt would have rather he'd never met him.

"It would only be for a night," he said, without any real conviction. he could tell from the scowl on his face, the stiffness of his shoulders, the eerie, still way he sat back on his heels, pretending at meditation before the hearth while Jaskier pestered him.

"You said the same thing about the banquet in Cintra. No." It was a low blow—they both knew it hadn’t been Jaskier's fault, not really, but—

"And when I'm harassed by cuckolds and angry spouses? What then, Geralt?"

"Hope you run quickly, then," Geralt said, expression smoothing to indifference as he settled into meditation, his breathing evening out. Realistically, Jaskier knew it was...probably fine. No one wanted to make a spectacle at a royal banquet, not really, but he was also aware of the fact that he had angered more than his fair share of spouses in his, ah, escapades. And then there was the fact he'd thought...fuck. He'd thought maybe Geralt had enjoyed his time at the banquets he'd played. But. Apparently not.

It didn’t matter. It was fine anyway.

Jaskier realized how very not fine it was almost as soon as he was announced. Three separate men swiveled to face the entrance and another four or so women, each looking anywhere between mildly scandalized and absolutely furious and he knew immediately he wouldn’t be getting out unscathed.

He set up to play with a nervous, buzzing energy under his skin. No one was staring still because that would be indecent, but he could feel their eyes anyway, watching. He gave himself just a minute to vehemently wish for Geralt, and then he straightened and took a deep breath, lute already cradled in his grip. The accompanying players perked up when he strummed a test chord, and in just a few moments they were deep into the first song of the opening set.

On stage was easy. He played, he smiled, he catered to the crowd. The accompanying players weren’t awful, and they took direction easily and eagerly. He was almost enjoying himself as he played, had almost forgotten the hostile gazes that still caught and held him occasionally. In the spotlight, nothing could happen to him and he relished it, even as he knew it would be ripped away, and soon.

He passed on the customary break between the arrival of the guests and the first course and played straight through, passing it off as his delight at playing to an appreciative audience and nothing at all to do with the way that would have pulled him out of the spotlight where he’d be vulnerable.

He was exhausted by the end of the meal, his fingers still stinging from the pressure of holding the strings down, but he played through his after dinner set as well, enjoying the prolonged security of having every eye in the room turned towards him. It couldn’t last, but he milked it for all it was worth right up until it was almost indecent to continue to do so, at which point he politely bowed out and let his compatriot, another bard he'd never met, take over.

He was already working out a plan on how to best vanish before one of the men or women still shooting him venomous looks could corner him in a quiet space when he was approached from behind.

"Julian Alfred Pankratz, otherwise known as the bard Jaskier," an arm looped around his neck, tugging him in close, grip tight, "we need to have a little chat, you and I." 

Fuck.

The man tugged him into a nearby nook in the wall. It was a tiny space meant for amorous couples to steal a few quick minutes of passion, or at least that's how Jaskier had always used them. As the man thrust him away from him and he stumbled face first against the far wall, he couldn’t help but think that wasn’t what was about to happen here.

"How can I help—" he cut off as he turned and got a look at the man's face. "Ah. Good evening, Arthur, to what do I—"

"Cut the shit, Jaskier," Arthur growled, voice low. He was already fucked. In for a copper, in for a crown.

"How's our darling Virginia?"

Arthur got a hand around his neck, shoved him farther into the nook and back up against the far wall again. His fingers bit into the flesh of his throat and he could feel the way his own heart pounded, pulse rabbit-quick against the count's fingers. "You don't get to talk about her. Not ever, and especially not like that." Jaskier fought down growing panic as his airway constricted and smiled, sharp and vicious.

"Ah, but I do believe I do. She said—" the only warning he got was the way Arthur's fingers tightened around his throat, cutting off airflow before the hit landed, solid and open-handed, across his face. He choked, panic rising as his fingers flew to his throat, scrabbling at the grip there in a frantic bid to get some air. Arthur squeezed hard for just a moment longer before letting up and Jaskier went limp as he did, sucking in air so fast he coughed.

"Do not speak about, think about, or so much as  _ look _ at my wife again, bard. Next time I won't be so nice. Do we understand each other?"

"Of course, Count de Stael," he rasped, as he finally let go, stepping back.

"It's been a distinct pleasure, Jaskier," he said in a tone that implied it very much was not, "enjoy the rest of your night." He left him there in the private nook, throat sore and cheek burning. He brushed his fingers lightly over the heat of it and winced.

It wasn’t hard to slip away after that. The party was distracted by the dancing and drinking, too busy to wonder where a single bard had gotten off to, even one as well known as Jaskier.

He spent the entire walk back to the inn rehearsing what he was going to say to Geralt, how he was going to explain himself. He was tired. His cheek burned every time the wind blew and his throat hurt with every breath and he just wanted...he just wanted Geralt. He just wanted Geralt, which is a ridiculous notion, because Geralt would call him an idiot and tell him this is his fault, but he'd also sit him down and fuss over the bruises he could already feel blooming on his throat, the red mark on his cheek. He was so ready for that that when he arrived back at their inn room, he almost didn’t understand it was empty until he'd been standing there a full minute.

"Sorry," he croaked at the innkeep downstairs a few minutes later, "the witcher, where did he—"

"Oh, he's at the brothel, boy. Said to tell you he'd be back in the morning." And that was—

"Thank you, good sir," he rasped, slipping him a copper across the counter before trudging back up to their—apparently  _ his _ —room for the night.

He dragged the healing salve safe for human use out of Geralt's bag and slathered his neck with it half-heartedly, rubbing it over his cheek too, just to be safe. He avoided looking at himself in the mirror, knowing too well what lurked there. Sad eyes. An empty smile. His throat burned, even as the salve started to do its job cutting through the pain on his skin. He suspected he wouldn’t be singing for a while yet.

He waited up for a bit despite himself, until long after the bar downstairs had closed and the patrons had shuffled out the door. The room felt too big, too empty, the single bed a cavernous void without Geralt's bulk to tuck himself up against, safe and protected. Geralt had assumed Jaskier wouldn't be back tonight, likely. Or at least, that's what he told himself. It made it sting a little less, this feeling in his chest, heavy and painful.

He settled into bed eventually, eyes burning and throat tight, and fell into a fitful sleep.

When Geralt turned back up the next morning, he didn’t say anything about the ring of bruises, and that hurt worse, somehow.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Desideratum - to long for.
> 
> Five times Jaskier needed Geralt, plus one time Geralt needed him.

He told himself it was for a number of reasons that he went out looking for Geralt. He told himself it was because he was bored at court, because Virginia was in a cooling phase, that Arthur was due back home any week now and Jaskier wasn’t looking forward to another shouting match between the count and countess. 

Jaskier told himself so many things as he followed the rumors to the river as to why he went looking for Geralt but the true reason. 

When he came down the path, he took a beat, watching his- his what? Geralt would never let him call him anything that made Geralt  _ his  _ anything. But there Geralt was, his shoulders drawn in a hard line of tension, sleeves rolled up over his elbows. 

Everything had gone tits up so fast that Jaskier didn’t know what else to do, so he did what he always would do. He clung to Geralt and hoped that the look of worry and concern was real and not just a creation of his own panic as he struggled for breath. The lump in his throat when he looked at Geralt was no longer just metaphorical and it crushed against his windpipe in a way that felt too much like a hand strangling the air from him. 

He tried for words but nothing came and Jaskier simply let himself be dragged along, first to a healer who was simply ineffectual and then to the witch. He was out before too long, sliding into a hazy sleep where he couldn’t call out for Geralt any more than he could with that thing blocking his voice. 

Coming to was no more illuminating than before, but he had a taste in his mouth of dust and blood and something sharp like magic meant to harm, In his fog he thought maybe he had been put in a bed in an inn somewhere and turned, reaching for the solid line of Geralt’s side that wasn’t there. For a moment, panic swelled in his chest and he thought the magic had come back, choking him again, but it was just the same pain he realized he was growing accustomed to. 

The woman on the edge of the bed, her back turned to him was gorgeous and haunting, her black hair cascading down her naked back-

Her naked back. What had happened? Where was Geralt? Why did Jaskier remember an orgy? 

“Not to be untoward or anything, but did we-” he gestured vaguely between himself and the woman but when she turned, her face was a mask of determination and power. He scrambled from the bed, his boots by the door. 

When she asked for him to try some scales, the only song he could think to sing was Geralt’s. If he was close, maybe he would hear, maybe he would come and save him. Jaskier needed him to appear, to pull him out by the scruff of his neck as he always had and make those faces at him again, the ones Jaskier could tell himself made it feel like Geralt actually cared, even a little bit. 

“Make your last wish!” she demanded as she stood above her circle of candles. 

He knew what he desired, what would soothe the thing roiling in his gut but in the moment, he didn’t want to risk putting Geralt into the path of this crazy woman. “I- I wish very badly to leave this place forever!” 

When she started chanting, he ran. 

“Oh Geralt, thank the gods,” he huffed. It would have been so easy to just lean into him, into space where Jaskier knew he’d be safe. He could pretend that Geralt would be happy he was alive even as he rushed in to save the witch that had just nearly tried to kill him. 

“She saved your life, Jaskier, I can’t let her die.” What was he supposed to do with that? 

Jaskier stood in the middle of the road, watching as the house seemed to partially collapse, and his heart collapsed with it. His chest constricted in a way he hadn’t been expecting. Sure he had cared for Geralt but something else, something like poison slipped between his ribs and festered into his heart. 

Jaskier didn’t just care for Geralt, he might have been just a little bit in love with him and it hadn’t been fair that he had resigned himself to a life chasing after the impossible. 

“... It wasn’t supposed to go this way.” There was a war within him. His- not  _ his.  _ Geralt was gone and Jaskier was left behind, as always, picking up the pieces of something he hadn’t realized would shatter so easily. 

“They’re alive!” Chireadan slumped down in front of him, pulling him to the window

Jaskier pushed in beside him, expecting relief to soothe the vibration under his skin. They were alive alright, and fucking their way to proving it. It had never bothered him before the idea of Geralt sleeping with someone. It shouldn’t have mattered then and so he told himself it didn’t. 

_ Just this once, and then we’ll never see her again.  _ Jaskier reasoned, turning away quickly. 

But of course, it wasn’t. 

And it wasn’t… and it wasn’t… and it wasn’t. And each time they ran into Yennefer by chance, by fate, or by Geralt’s own undefined need, a part of Jaskier chipped and cracked and threatened to shatter. 

“I thought we had a contract in Vizima?” Jaskier bounced alongside Roach, his fingers working over a particularly tricky chord procession. 

“ _ I  _ have a contract in Vizima,” Geralt deadpanned, not looking at Jaskier.

“That’s all well and good, but this is the road to Murivel,” 

“I know how to read a map, Jaskier,” he growled back, but there didn’t seem to be any heat behind it. Instead, Geralt seemed almost pleased with himself. 

“I don’t doubt your ability with a map, Witcher, but I’m starting to doubt your sanity. What are you playing at?” he jogged up a bit until he was nearly in step with Roach, pushing his lute back over his shoulder. 

“There’s a bardic competition in Murivel for one of their festivals.” And there it was, that smile Geralt gave him on the rare occasions when the coin was alright, the people weren’t awful, and all the gods agreed that Jaskier should have something at least slightly nice in his life. He tried not to admit how much he had come to live off those smiles or to read into them. 

“What about the contract?” 

“Hm,” Geralt smirked, urging Roach on, leaving Jaskier to follow. 

They had found a room at a tavern on the edge of town and Geralt had even agreed to attend for Jaskier’s performance. 

“I mean it, Geralt! I’m counting on you,” Jaskier teased, throwing a towel at him as he climbed out of the bath. 

It felt like nearly every eye in Murivel was on him when he took the stage, but even through the haze of pipe smoke and the setting sun, Jaskier could still make out Geralt towards the edge of the square, his eyes not leaving Jaskier as he began to play. He hadn’t realized how much he had needed just that one set of amber eyes on him to settle his nerves. 

Jaskier had glanced away for a moment but when his eyes found Geralt again, those same eyes were now caught in violet ones framed by dark raven hair and a smile like a knife. It cut Jaskier to ribbons and his fingers tripped over the chords he otherwise knew in his sleep. 

Geralt had said it was because of a bardic competition, but as Jaskier left the stage, knowing that he lost points for his sudden loss of breath mid-performance, he felt… played. 

Geralt would come back, of course, he would. He always did. Jaskier sat at the end of the bar in the tavern and watched the door as he slowly tipped himself into the well-made mead, spending nearly every coin of his third-place winnings. He watched and waited as the tavern slowly emptied out, the barkeep getting more and more aggressive with insisting Jaskier call it a night. And so he did. 

Jaskier climbed the stairs alone and pushed into their… his room. The only thing there that had even suggested he wasn’t traveling alone was a second cloak hanging beside his on the back of the door. He reached out, adjusting it without purpose until he couldn’t bear to touch the thing anymore. 

The note he left for Geralt was short and to the point and Jaskier didn’t think he would even think anything of it. Jaskier was prone to taking off randomly and this would have been no different, not from where Geralt stood anyways. 

He hadn’t slept and he watched through the tiny window as the sky beyond the city went from a deep bruising blue to a soft gray. He had set out then, not looking back as he found the road west. 

Jaskier swallowed around the lump that had caught in his throat, the memory of the djinn tinging it with that same sharp taste that still left him breathless and helpless. 

“ _ She saved your life, Jaskier. I can’t let her die,” he said, his eyes softer than they normally would be.  _

The exhaustion in his bones couldn’t outway the burning in his chest that propelled him forward. Jaskier had never understood why Geralt couldn’t have let her die while Jaskier himself stood there choking to death on a need he could not name. 


	3. Chapter 3

Jaskier knew he was being overly reckless as of late. 

He had always bullied Geralt about letting him go on hunts. In the decade and change that they had known each other, he had worked hard to chronicle the tales of witchers and monsters. His songs had indubitably improved Geralt’s reputation and that of his profession. He could not, he often argued, continue to write stirring ballads of Geralt’s heroics if he didn’t _see_ said heroics in action. In the early years he’d been tenacious, but over time he had let it go somewhat. You only had to see so many drowner fights to get the picture, and usually the really interesting fights _were_ too dangerous. Jaskier wanted a good story, but he also couldn’t write a good ballad if he was dead. 

Recently something spurred him on, though. Whenever Geralt got a contract, Jaskier leapt into his tirade on why he should be allowed to go. If Geralt forbid him from tagging along, Jaskier would wait until enough time had passed and follow him anyways. He knew he was making a nuisance of himself. He was a distraction, and a risk, bumbling through the forests and fields, unable to see in the dark, stinking of nerves and fresh meat. But he couldn’t stop, no matter how many times he told himself he was being an annoyance. There was a pounding sense of urgency in his breast that made him want to snatch up every moment that he could. It was like a storm cloud on a distant horizon, filling him with dread each time he looked at Geralt and found the witcher staring off into the middle distance. He _needed_ to be there, because lately every time Geralt left his sight it felt like it might be the last. 

Which was why when Geralt said he was hunting down a werewolf and Jaskier was to stay in the inn,he’d put on his gloves, shoved two handfuls of wolfsbane in his pockets and made his way into the forest.

It was nearly dark, the barest hints of dusk still coloring the edges of the trees as Jaskier moved deeper into the forest. The werewolf, the alderman had said, only attacked at night, usually on the outskirts of the forest. Stealing a few sheep from the fields, some dogs, and most recently a little girl. Which was why they were here, of course. Jaskier picked through the dense underbrush, following a thin hunting trail, and thought about what Geralt would be doing. He would stick close to the edge of the woods, where the beast had been making its attacks, probably. Most likely he would try and catch it when it tried to hunt, while it was still weak from hunger and its recent transformation. He would wait at the edge of the forest, listening intently for the sound of the wolf’s approach. Crouched in the darkness, waiting for any tiny shift in the wind, the faintest hint of old blood, the sound of- 

A branch cracked somewhere on Jaskier’s left. He froze, a cold panic sliding over him like oil running down his spine. 

It shouldn’t have been able to find him. The wolfsbane in his pockets should have at least somewhat masked his scent, according to Geralt’s sparse teachings. Unless he’d stumbled onto it, unless he’d been _extremely_ unlucky…

_Well,_ Jaskier thought grimly. 

He heard the huff of a heavy, wet breath. Turning as quickly as he dared, Jaskier looked over and met a pair of dark eyes, just barely reflecting the dying light filtering through the trees. 

He took a step back, an almost involuntary motion, and then the beast was on him. 

It hit him like a boulder to the chest, knocking him back onto the rough forest floor. He lifted his hands automatically in defense, adrenaline coursing through his veins as the werewolf threw itself against him, snapping towards his face. His fingers found purchase in the prickly fur of its neck, one arm held across its throat to hold it off. It was wickedly strong, pushing against him, saliva dripping from its gaping maw onto Jaskier’s face. Panic whirled through him as he pulled his knees up, straining to push it away and off of him. He was pinned utterly, his arms shaking where he tried to hold the thing back.

“Ger-” he began, hoping he would hear, hoping _anyone_ would hear, but he was cut off when the werewolf lunged forward again. He snapped one hand from its neck to its snout, desperately trying to keep its glistening yellow teeth away from his vulnerable throat. The creature dug its claws into Jaskier’s side, and he cried out in pain and terror. 

No one was coming. 

Jaskier did the only thing he could think to do. He dropped his arm from the werewolf’s throat and reached into his pocket. Victorious, the wolf opened its mouth wide, leaning down against the pressure of Jaskier’s hand to try and finally close its teeth around his head-

And he lifted his other hand and shoved it deep into the wolf’s mouth, releasing the wolfsbane on its tongue.

The effect was instantaneous. The creature reared back as if struck, gagging wildly, hacking the bright indigo petals out onto the ground. Jaskier didn’t hesitate. He rolled to his feet and bolted, not bothering to look where he was going. He sprinted back down the trail he’d come up, crashing recklessly through the underbrush. All he could feel was panic, clawing down the back of his neck and pushing him to run as fast as he could. 

As he stumbled out onto the dirt path leading back to the village, he heard something behind him. Deep in the woods, the telltale concussive sound of _aard_ being released. Geralt had found his quarry. 

Stumbling back into town, back to the inn, was a blur. He couldn’t remember what he said to the innkeeper to assuage his concerned looks, but before long he found himself standing in the middle of his shared room with Geralt. He could still feel his heart pounding in his chest, his mouth dry with panic. His limbs tingled, his fingers nearly numb. 

He was roused by a knock at the door to his room. Shaking his head, he moved to open it, hoping illogically that it would be Geralt. It was a ridiculous thought - Geralt was still on the hunt - but Jaskier just wanted someone to ground him, to put an arm around his shoulders and force his skin to stop crawling. Instead he opened the door to the innkeeper with a bucket of water and a roll of bandages. Apparently he had not managed to assuage his concerns after all.

Jaskier took the supplies with murmured thanks and closed the door. The interruption had cut through his shock somewhat, and he realized that his side was burning, along with his forearm. A brief investigation revealed four deep puncture wounds on his hip, as well as a few ragged scrapes on his arm where he’d shoved his hand heedlessly past the werewolf’s teeth. 

Jaskier was unused to caring for his own injuries. Geralt’s, certainly, he had experience with. He knew the motions well enough. But he wasn’t good with pain, and he felt shaky and weak with lingering fear. Standing in the middle of their shared room with his bloody shirt in one hand, Jaskier suddenly wished, more fervently than he could remember in a long time, that Geralt were with him. That he would come through the door and tsk at Jaskier’s wounds, gently wrap up his arm and patch his side and tell him that he was stupid, but all with that soft tone he always used when Jaskier got himself into trouble. He would say Jaskier was smart, for using the wolfsbane, for remembering what Geralt had taught him. And he would let Jaskier sleep with him, just for tonight, so that he could feel safe in the circle of Geralt’s arms. He just wanted to be held, he thought wildly, looking down at his own bloody forearm. He just wanted Geralt.

But Geralt couldn’t know, because if he did he would be pissed, and he would send Jaskier away. Maybe this time for good.

So Jaskier cleaned out his own wounds, as methodically as he would have Geralt’s, and slathered them with healing salve before wrapping bandages securely around them. He took the rest of the wolfsbane from his pocket and made an extremely diluted tea, like Geralt had done for a young woman years ago when she’d been bitten on a job. He drank it in the silence of their empty room, his side aching and his skin itching for a comforting touch. And when Geralt returned late that night, and asked why the room smelled of blood, Jaskier smiled and told him he’d cut himself shaving. 

He didn’t play for two weeks while his arm healed. Geralt didn’t seem to notice.


	4. Chapter 4

Of all the places to fall - of all the places to twist his ankle - of all the times to trip and tug and _wrench_ — 

Why _now?_

Jaskier hobbled on his throbbing ankle through the heather, the path nearly completely obscured. The weather was closing in, and this high up the mountain the pressure of the brewing stormfront made his skin prickle. The poorly healed scars on his forearm felt tight and itchy beneath his shirt, and he scratched at them unthinkingly, uncaring for the further damage he was doubtless doing. 

He remembered his fears when he’d hidden those slowly healing claw wounds, when he’d gifted Geralt two full weeks of blessed silence nearly two years ago. He’d wanted - he’d wanted a lot of things, that night, but most of all he’d wanted _Geralt_. 

But Geralt couldn’t know. He couldn’t know Jaskier had followed him. He couldn’t know about the attack. 

Worse: he couldn’t know Jaskier wanted him— 

Because he would be pissed— 

Because he would _send him away_ — 

Jaskier hadn’t meant to tell him. But Geralt must have known what he’d meant when Jaskier had sat by his side and gazed out at the sunset and had suggested, his heart in his throat, that they could go to the coast. _Get away for a while_. Perhaps Geralt could hear it in the words he’d chosen, or in the way his pulse had quickened. 

He knew, and he wasn’t pissed. He was _furious_. 

Jaskier stumbled over a loose bit of shale, jarring his ankle. He was barely a quarter of the way down the mountain. 

It would hurt less if Geralt had simply taken the limb in both hands and twisted it himself. He could have done - he was certainly strong enough - and then there'd be no ringing dissonance between Jaskier’s turbulent emotions. Jaskier could push aside his love and hate him, fully and ferociously. 

There was a crack of thunder loud enough to make his ears ring, and the heavens opened. 

He struggled on, the rock dangerously slippery beneath his boots. His ankle twisted beneath his weight again, making him stumble, and he swore, the curse echoing into the still air. He huffed hot breaths through his nose as he righted himself, not giving himself a chance to rest. 

His eyes stung with tears, mingling with the torrential rain. It was just - pain. Pain in his leg, pain from the way the wind whipped at his face, blasting his cheeks. Pain in his chest, like a blade, leaving him breathless and winded. 

He still wanted Geralt, despite it all. 

Geralt had become like a port in a storm, like an island on the horizon. Jaskier sought him out without even knowing he was doing it. Whether he was suffering from a broken heart or a _fucking_ werewolf attack he crawled to Geralt’s side and knew— 

Knew he was safe. 

Sometimes Geralt wouldn’t be there. Sometimes Jaskier would be forced to wait, hovering in the space left by Geralt’s absence. But despite that plaguing fear that Geralt could just vanish at any moment - that any time he saw him could be the last - he _was_ always there. Eventually. 

That urge gnawed at him, even now. It wasn’t even a _choice_ , any more. He’d been by Geralt’s side for so many years that the way he _functioned_ , now, was altered. When he was hurt, he sought out Geralt instinctively, like a bird heading north in the spring. 

He wanted Geralt. And that made it hurt all the more, knowing that Geralt was the one who did this to him - the one who sent him away, who screamed at him, who heaped all of his problems at Jaskier’s feet. 

_If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands._

It was not the first time Jaskier had been sent away, but from Geralt’s lips it sounded like a death wish. 

He stared out across the ragged landscape. There was nothing to see but miles of trees and rocks and twisting undergrowth. He felt very suddenly alone, his doublet flapping in the wind, a red blemish amongst the grey and green. As if _wanting_ Geralt wasn’t painful enough: he _needed_ him, too. Jaskier didn’t know how he’d manage to get back down alone, especially now he’d managed to injure himself. 

If Geralt was here— 

He couldn’t think like that, any more. Need him or not, Geralt wasn’t there. Geralt wasn’t coming for him this time. 

He could only carry on, keep marching forwards. He couldn’t fight, he couldn’t trek, he could only build a _passable_ fire. He would have to hope that there was nothing more dangerous on the mountainside than the hirikka that Sir Eyck had hacked to pieces. 

The rain didn’t show any sign of letting up as he marched onwards, his boots sticking in the quickly thickening mud. He lost track of time, eyes downwards, shoulders heavy with his sodden clothes. 

There was a noise behind him. For a single, absurd moment he thought he was rescued - that Geralt had changed his mind, had come back for him. He turned, breathless, and saw— 

Yennefer was watching him from the outcrop above. The rain didn’t even _touch_ her. 

She looked… tired. 

They stared at each other for a long moment. Jaskier was soaked, his clothes sticking to his heaving chest and his hair plastered across his forehead. _Of all the people in the world_ , he thought, bitterly. 

She peered around, scanning for something. And then Jaskier remembered _her_ final conversation with Geralt, too. She was likely trying to avoid him. 

“He’s not here,” he shouted, his words muffled by the storm. “If you’ve come to curse him.” 

He half-wished she _had_ come to curse Geralt. Jaskier couldn’t do anything with this pain - only sit with it, bundle it against his chest and absorb it. But Yen was stronger, more powerful - and more likely to lash out. She didn’t reply, just frowned down at him. 

Jaskier hoped that would be that - she’d realise he was alone and leave, fuck off through one of her portals and leave him be. But she didn’t. She picked her way towards him, a faint purple bubble of shimmering magic hovering above her, keeping her dry. As she drew closer, he could feel that familiar hot prickle behind his eyes, a _strumming_ between his ears. 

“Keep out of my _fucking_ head, witch,” he snapped. 

She blanched, blinking, like she’d found something in his mind she wasn’t expecting. 

“He left you.” It wasn't a question. 

That wasn’t quite right. “He told me to leave.” 

She took another step forward. Even in the grey of the storm, her eyes were bright and deadly looking. 

“You love him.” She said it in the offhand, passing way she might comment on the weather. 

Jaskier could feel anger flare in his chest - but it was brief, burning itself out too quickly, leaving behind only ash. 

“I told you to stay out of my head.” 

“I don’t need to read your mind to see _that_ ,” she said. “He told you to leave?” 

“He did.” 

“And you did as you were told.” There was that _tone_ he’d grown so used to hearing from Yen, like she was talking to a petulant child, or an ill-behaved animal. But then - somehow - her expression softened. “Of course you did.” 

Jaskier didn’t have time for this. She wasn’t mocking him, but he didn’t want her pity either. He turned his back and began to trudge away, swearing again as his ankle wobbled beneath him. 

She easily matched his pace, walking beside him as he limped along. 

“What happened?” 

“It’s just a sprain,” he huffed, “it’s _fine_.” 

But she was on him in a moment, bending down, her hand hovering above his ankle. His skin tingled. 

“It’s broken,” she said, finally. “Badly.” She stood. “How long have you been walking on this?” 

He shrugged. An hour? Two? She regarded him with those violet eyes - as if weighing him up - and then her face was set in a steely expression he struggled to read. Without saying anything else, she raised her palms, and for a terrible moment he thought she was going to curse him - but there was a sudden closeness in the air, a rush of wind, and with a little implosive noise the empty space next to him burst into a portal. 

“I—” 

She grabbed his arm and manoeuvred him through the whirling circle, his ears popping. 

They were spat out in Caingorn, and after allowing Jaskier a moment to compose himself - including vomiting into a shrub while she politely looked away - Yen guided him to the local healer. When she left two hours later through another portal, he didn’t miss her absence, but they parted with a tenuous sort of understanding - nothing so intimate as friendship, perhaps, but the recognition of mutual pain. 

He lay in the tiny bed in the attic of the healer’s cottage, ankle splinted, head fuzzy with painkillers. Just before sunset, the healer slid a couple of fire-warmed stones beneath the sheet beside him. 

Through the fog, and around the dull ache of his ankle, he could almost pretend that he wasn’t alone. 


End file.
